^v 


\ 


THE   LATER 


POEMS  AND  SONGS 


OF 


JAMES    LINEN 

.         ii 


WRITTEN  BETWEEN   THE    YEARS   I860   AND   1878. 


"Peace!   Independence!   Truth!  go  forth 
Earth's  compass  round  ; 
Ami  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  eart 
All  hallowed  ground." 

Thomas   CAMPBI 


New    York  : 
W.    J.    WIDDLETON,    PUBLISHER, 

SAN    FRANCISCO  : 

A .    ROMAN    &    CO  M P  A  N Y . 

1873. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

JAMES  LINEN, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.C. 


JOHN   ROSS   &   CO.,   PKINTERf,   27  HOPE   STREET,   KtW   YORK. 


•        •    « 

•  •      •    » 

•  •     «    » 


B 


TO 

Wiillizm  Mullen  iirgant,  2Haqu 

During  the  long  period,  of  nearly  forty  years,  I  have  received  from  you  many  kind 
favors  of  a  social  and  literary  character.  You  smiled  approvingly  on  my  earliest 
poetic  efforts.  Having  the  same  veneration  for  your  exalted  worth  as  a  man,  with  an 
undiminished  admiration  for  your  ability  as  a  poet,  as  I  entertained  when  a  youth, 
to  whom  could  I  inscribe  this  production  with  so  much  grateful  propriety  as  to  your- 
self? My  larger  volumes  were  dedicated  to  you,  and,  with  your  permission,  I  lay 
down  respectfully  at  the  shrine  of  your  genius  this  little  offering  of  my  humble  Muse. 

Cordially  your  friend, 

JAMES  LINEN. 


MI91978 


PREFAC  E 


HP  HE  present  volume  requires  no  apology  for  its  pub- 
"*"  lication.  Some  of  the  poems  and  songs  have  been 
popular  and  drifting  about,  and  appearing  occasionally 
without  even  the  author's  name.  Having  sufficient 
material  on  hand,  I  concluded  to  publish  them  under 
my  own  supervision.  Eight  years  ago,  I  gave  to  the 
world  my  miscellaneous  writings  in  prose  and  verse, 
which  were  well  received  at  the  time.  I  have  since 
published  "  The  Golden  Gate,"  with  illustrations  and  his- 
torical notes. 

Some  of  the  lyrics  have  been  so  popular  that  they 
have  been  set  to  music  both  at  home  and  abroad.  Such 
compositions  will  be  found  in  the  pages  of  this  volume, 
arranged  side  by  side,  with  similar  effusions  of  a  later 
date.  I  hope  it  will  please  my  friends  to  see  them  pub- 
lished uniformly  and  together. 

My  Muse  feels  none  of  the  infirmities  peculiar  to  old 
age.  She  is  still  vigorous,  and  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  mental  health.     However,    she  prefers   repose   to   the 


6  PREFACE. 

labor  of  toiling  for  an  empty  name.  For  many  years, 
she  has  been  kindly  fostered  by  a  generous  Press.  Hence- 
forth she  will  seek  the  social  sweets  of  retirement.  Her 
task  is  done,  and  her  ambition  has  been  abundantly  gra- 
tified. The  companion  and  sweet  solace  of  my  life  now 
bows  herself  graciously  out  of  the  Republic  of  Letters. 

New  York,  July  4,  1873. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

TAGE 

The  Poet's  Mission 9 

The  Bunch  of  Heather  Bells 12 

Conscience 14 

Virtue 17 

Time 20 

Decay 23 

Bygane  Days 26 

Greenwood 2!) 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Monument  in  Central  Park 81 

The  Sparrows 34 

My  Beloved  Son.    Written  for  a  Bereaved  Mother 30 

Lines  to  an  Old  Tooth 38 

The  Centenarian 41 

To  My  Daughter  Josephine 43 

Nil  Desperandum / 45 

An  Enigma 47 

Slaves  of  Fashion 48 

Maggie  Mitchell,  an  Old  Friend 49 

Love  and  Revenge 51 

Miles  Standish 51 

Destiny 52 

Common  Sense 55 

The  Wonderfu'  Callant 58 

John  Center,  the  Prince  of  California  Squatters 60 

The  Happy  Pair 62 

Jamie  McGinn,  the  Comical  Undertaker 64 

Lines  Written  on  the  Night  Before  I  Left  California 65 

Lines  Written  on  the  Morning  of  my  Leaving  California 65 

Affinity  and  Divinity .'. .  65 

SONGS. 

I  feel  I'm  Growing  Auld,  Gude-Wife 69 

Tak'  Back  the  Ring,  Dear  Jamie 71 

The  Snaw  Lies  Deep  on  Hill  and  Plain 73 


CON  1  EN  IS. 


PAGE 

Kate  o'  Glenrowan 75 

My  Mary  0 77 

Clara 7S 

Annie  Lee 79 

Little  Nelly  Gordon 82 

My  Bonnie  Wee  Lizzie 83 

My  Sweet  Little  Hlnnie 85 

The  Valley  of  Wyoming 87 

First  Love 89 

Mary  Ann,  of  Hamilton,  Ontario 91 

Lucy  Lee 92 

Have  You  Pelt  at  Your  Heart  ? 93 

I  Love  to  Dream  o'  Thee,  Mary 95 

Lowland  Mary 97 

How  the  Heart  to  the  Past  wi'  Rapture  Clings 98 

Jessie  Paterson '. 100 

Oh  !  My  Fair,  My  Darling  Maggie 102 

Bonnie  Fanny  Dean 103 

EPITAPHS   AND    EPIGRAMS. 

Sandy  Mien 105 

On  the  Tombstone  of  a  Knave 105 

An  Honest  Man , 100 

Ellis  the  Baker 106 

The  Drunkard  and  Cheat 100 

The  Hypocrite 107 

Lying  Tommy 107 

Dram-Drinking  John        KIT 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend 108 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Gowanlock     108 

Epigram  108 

Elder  Knapp,  the  Sensational  Preacher 109 

The  Ruling  Passion. 109 

David  Mitchell no 

Willy,  the  Antiquarian  Oddity 110 

Epigram Ill 


POEMS 


The      Poet's      Jfi  i  s  s  i  o 


"DENEATH  the  poet's  wandering  feet  fair  flowers  for  ever 

spring, 
And  o'er  the  poet's  thoughtful  head  sweet  birds  for  ever  sing  ; 
He  tunes  his  harp  to  stirring  strains,  in  all  things  beauty  sees, 
And  music  weird  and  wild  he  hears  in  every  whistling  breeze. 

Though  wrestling  with  his  passions  strong,  his  thoughts  soar 

upward  still 
To  spheres  beyond  all  human  ken,  where  fancy  roams  at  will ; 
His  keen  eye  scans  creation  o'er,  and  finds  a  peaceful  home 
In  every  star  that  glitters  bright  in  yonder  sapphire  dome. 

With  flowers  he  decks  the  arid  waste,  and  drinks  from  desert 

springs, 
And  o'er  the  face  of  nature  rude  a  robe  of  beauty  flings  ; 
He  worships  on  the  mountain-tops,  and,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 
With  hands  upraised,  all  prophet-like,  he  communes  with  his 

God. 


10  THE  POET'S  MISSION. 

He  frowns  on  kings  and  hireling  tools  who  smile  at  guilty 

Wrong  ; 
1  Le  holds  up  high  to  public  scorn  proud  knaves  in  deathless 

song  ; 
And  while   he   pleads   in   earnest   tones   for  honors   to    the 

brave, 
His  burning  words  strong  fetters  melt  that  bind  the  bleeding 

slave. 

Bark  clouds,  with  living  lightning  charged,  across  the  sky 

may  roll, 
And  thunders  shake  with  trembling   fears   the   world  from 

Pole  to  Pole  ; 
But  he  who  thrills  the  human  heart,  the  gifted  son  of  Time, 
Stands  forth   amid  the   tempest  wild,  and  paints  the  scene 

sublime. 

From  Truth  the  poet  never  swerves,  and  firm   by  Freedom 

stands, 
And  scorns  the  shield  of  tyrant  flags  in  dark,  down-trodden 

lands  ; 
But  while  he  humbly  worships  God,  and  bows  to  laws  divine, 
He  tears  the  mask  from  canting  priests  who  kneel  at  Error's 

shrine. 

While  Reason  stands  in  boundless  wastes,  bewildered,  lost, 
and  dumb, 

Swift  to  the  bard's  conceptive  mind  bright  visions  trooping- 
come  ; 


TUB  POET'S  MISSION.  1 1 

He  wanders  through  the  orbs  of  space,  sees  worlds  on  worlds 

arise, 
Where   dimly   Faith  in  silence  points  to  realms  that  Doubt 

denies. 

His  kingdom  is  the  human   heart,   in   which   he   rears  his 

throne  ; 
His  subjects  are  the  passions  wild  that  due  allegiance  own. 
Xo  monarch  that  holds   regal   sway,   and  wears   a  jewelled 

crown, 
Can  ever  crush  the  poet's  rule,  or  drag  his  empire  down. 


12  THE  BUNCH  OF  HEATHER  BELLS. 


The  Bunch   of   Heather   Bells. 


A  S  on  thy  stem  a  thousand  bells 

In  fragrant  beauty  hing, 
So,  round  my  auld  time-withered  heart 

Sweet  recollections  cling. 
Thy  bells  to  me  have  tuneful  tongues 

That  ring  auld  Scotia's  praise, 
And  hallow'd  thoclits  come  rushing  back 
To  scenes  o'  bygane  days. 

Ere  thorns  o'  care  grew  in  my  heart, 

I  lap  ower  mossy  dykes, 
Whaur  heather  linties  sing  their  sangs, 

And  bumbees  build  their  bykes. 
I've  wandered  ower  the  weary  waste, 

And  seen  it  wrapt  in  snaw, 
Heard  lammies  bleat  on  purple  moors 

Whaur  scented  breezes  blaw. 

0  bonnie  bunch  o'  blooming  bells  ! 

My  heart  wi'  rapture  thrills, 
While  thus  I  hail  thee  as  a  friend 

Fresh  frae  my  native  hills. 


THE  BUNCH   OF  HEATHER   BELLS. 

Thoivrt  red  and  strong  wi'  moorland  health, 

And,  when  compared  wi'  thee, 
The  painted  flowers  o'  tropic  lands 

Are  sickly  things  to  me. 

0  golden  days  o'  joyous  youth  ! 

What  transports  sweet  are  mine, 
When  mem'ry  thro'  the  mists  o'  years 

Glints  back  on  auld  langsyne. 
Oh  !  for  ae  blink  o'  Scotia's  glens, 

Her  mountains  wild  and  bare ! 
Bound  by  the  ties  time  canna  break, 

My  heart  still  lingers  there. 


CONSCIENCE. 


9 


ONSCIENCE 


"  Whatever  creed  be  taught,  or  land  he  trod, 
Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God.'1 

Byron. 


rpELL  mo,  0  Conscience  !  what  thou  art, 

That  fires  the  brain,  and  wrings  the  heart 
That  haunts  the  guilty  mind  with  fears, 
And  fills  the  eyes  with  hitter  tears  ; 
That  keeps  the  memory  on  the  rack, 
By  bringing  recollections  back ; 
That  plays  with  feelings  at  thy  will, 
And  tortures  with  consummate  skill ; 
Whose  task  it  is,  by  smile  or  frown, 
To  lift  man  up,  or  drag  him  down  ; 
Whose  stings  are  keener  far  than  steel 
Which  felons  in  dark  dungeons  feel. 
The  prince  may  golden  favors  shower. 
Yet  he  is  subject  to  thy  power ; 
The  priest  may  preach  some  creed  of  gloom. 
And  sing  of  bliss  beyond  the  tomb  ; 
But  thou  canst  read  his  thought  profound. 
Lone  Sentinel  of  sacred  ground  ! 


CONSCIENCE.  15 

The  liero  honor's  path  may  tread, 

And  his  great  name  world-wide  be  spread  ; 

But  glory  brings  not  peace  of  mind — 

That  jewel  rare,  so  hard  to  find. 

From  thy  dominion  none  can  flee, 

For  mortals  all  must  bow  to  thee  ! 

Tell  me,  0  Conscience  !  what  thou  art, 

Weird  watchman  of  the  human  heart ! 

Art  thou  the  child  of  wretched  Care, 
That  murders  Sleep,  and  mocks  Despair  ; 
That  fills  with  pangs  the  human  breast, 
And  robs  the  guilty  head  of  rest ; 
That  mutely  weeps  o'er  crimes  untold, 
Where  Vice  buys  Virtue  with  its  gold  ; 
Whose  records  by  some  mystic  hand 
Are  written  in  a  fadeless  land  ? 
Tell  me,  0  Conscience  !  what  thou  art, 
Weird  watchman  of  the  human  heart ! 

The  soul,  that  claims  celestial  birth, 

Finds  naught  but  tainted  joys  on  earth  ; 

Imprisoned  in  a  cell  of  clay 

That  yields  to  laws  of  swift  decay — 

Too  pure  for  such  a  horrid  hell, 

AVhere  shapeless  fiends  in  anguish  dwell — 

The  spirit-tenant  of  the  heart 

Is  ever  yearning  to  depart ; 

Like  some  caged  warbler,  to  be  free, 

That  it  may  soar,  0  God,  to  thee  ! 


16  CONSCIENCE. 

0  Conscience  !   mute,  mysterious  guest  ! 
Man  fain  would  pluck  thee  from  his  breast, 
As  if  thou  wert  his  deadly  foe, 
The  only  cause  of  human  woe  ; 
Could  he  but  snatch  thy  golden  crown. 
And  madly  pull  thy  temple  down, 
Dark  Vice  would  rear  her  bloody  shrines 
Where  perish  hopes,  and  Virtue  pines  ; 
Strike  but  the  brave  heart-monarch  dumb. 
And  earth  a  desert  would  become. 

When  man  can  feel  a  conscience  clear, 
What  wrongs  and  dangers  need  he  fear  ? 
Calmly  at  his  departing  breath 
It  takes  away  the  stings  from  death  ; 
It  nobly  braves  the  coward  world, 
Till  Reason  from  her  throne  be  hurled  ; 
With  all  the  feelings  of  the  heart 
It  gently  plays  a  leading  part, 
In  concert  acting  with  the  soul 
When  passions  wild  brook  no  control ; 
Close  by  life's  purple  fountain  found. 
It  guards  the  spot  as  holy  ground. 
Tell  me,  0  Conscience  !  what  thou  art . 
Weird  watchman  of  the  human  heart  ! 


V1R1  UE.  1 7 


Y 


I    R  T   U    E  . 


A   WOMAN  !  what  a  wretch  thou  art, 
^     If  virtue  reigns  not  in  thy  heart  ! 
By  some  kind  Providence  designed 
To  comfort  and  to  Mess  mankind  ; 
Like  some  sweet  angel  from  above, 
To  cheer  the  fireside  with  thy  love, 
And  make  thy  home  a  home  of  peace, 
Where  joys  connubial  never  cease ; 
Where  looks  and  honeyed  words  are  kind 
And  tender  ties  affections  bind — 
Who  dare  invade  such  hallowed  ground. 
Where  no  dark  passions  lurk  around  ? 

Oft  beauty  Virtue's  claims  neglect, 
Who  courts  not,  but  commands  respect  ; 
Cased  in  an  armor  that's  divine, 
She,  sleepless,  guards  her  sacred  shrine. 
And  shuns  the  gilded  halls  of  vice, 
Where  bastard  virtue  hath  its  price  ; 
Despising  Mammon's  purse-proud  slaves, 
She  spurns  the  proffered  gold  of  knaves  ; 


18  VIRTUE. 

Her  heart  from  all  deceit  is  free, 
And  looks  for  strength,  0  God,  to  thee 
She  may  be  poor,  hut  still  her  name 
Untarnished  is  by  deeds  of  shame  ; 
She  may  he  clothed  in  rags  and  need, 
In  touching  tones  with  pity  plead; 
Yet,  conscious  that  she's  pure  and  just, 
She  keeps  secure  her  priceless  trust. 

While  others  quaif  libations  up, 
She  spurns  the  dangers  of  the  cup, 
And  proudly,  with  imperious  frown, 
She  casts  the  tempting  goblet  down ; 
Her  sober  reason,  strong  and  pure, 
Knows  reeling  thrones  are  insecure. 
So,  sparkling  wine  may  fire  the  brain, 
And  lead  to  years  of  bitter  pain. 
The  scornful  flashing  of  her  eye 
All  crafty  snares  of  art  defy ; 
From  her  one  keen,  indignant  glance 
Forbids  a  villain  to  advance ; 
Confused,  he  seeks  a  swift  retreat, 
Or  kneels  a  craven  at  her  feet ; 
She  towers  above  all  vice  and  shame, 
And  glories  in  her  stainless  name. 

When  Honor  comes  with  motive  pure, 
The  welcome  is  made  sweetly  sure  ; 


VIRTUE.  1!) 


Her  modest  and  lier  simple  air, 
And  blushes  on  her  cheeks  so  fair ; 
The  music  of  her  guileless  tongue, 
That  never  worth  and  merit  stung ; 
The  curtains  that  so  mildly  rise, 
And  graceful  hang  o'er  wistful  eyes  ; 
The  gentle  heaving  of  the  breast, 
"Where  all  the  passions  calmly  rest, 
Present  a  bride  so  true  and  warm 
That  shafts  of  envy  fail  to  harm  ; 
Her  loving  heart,  when  fairly  won, 
The  brightest  jewel  'neath  the  sun, 
Confiding  in  her  chosen  spouse, 
Keeps  sacred  all  her  bridal  tows. 


TIME. 


I 


M   E 


rpHROUGH  mists  that  hang  over  the  Past. 

Xo  mortal  his  story  can  trace  ; 
He  sits  on  a  mystical  throne, 
The  first  and  the  last  of  his  race. 


Xo  jewels  shine  bright  on  his  crown, 
And  mutely  he  reigns  as  of  old ; 

His  archives  by  angels  are  kept, 
"Which  no  human  eye  can  behold. 

When  Earth  was  a  planet  of  fire, 
In  wonder  he  rode  on  the  storm, 

And  gazed  at  the  red,  naming  ball, 
Ere  matter  was  moulded  to  form. 

Amid  the  dread  deluge  of  fire, 
He  saw  the  huge  mountains  arise, 

Until  their  bleak  summits  were  lost 

In  the  white-rolling  clouds  of  the  skies. 


TIME.  ^  1 


When  Nature  was  writhing  in  pain, 
And  struggling  as  if  to  be  free, 

lie  saw  roaring  billows  shrink  back, 
And  islands  leap  out  of  the  sea. 


When  flames  their  wild  fury  had  spent, 
And  left  bare  the  crust  of  the  globe, 

He  saw  smiling  Nature  look  glad, 
And  graced  with  an  emerald  robe. 

From  chaos  he  saw  beauty  spring, 
And  order  march  forth  in  its  train  ; 

But  to  find  out  the  date  of  his  birth, 
Man's  efforts  are  futile  and  vain. 

The  keen  eye  of  man  fails  to  pierce 
The  pall  and  the  blackness  of  night, 

And  Science  gets  'wildered  and  lost 
In  search  of  the  truth-guiding  light.. 

The  Scholar  may  boast  of  his  lore, 
The  Sophist  and  wrangler  may  rave  ; 

But  rocks  and  volcanoes  are  dumb, 
And  fossils  are  mute  as  the  grave. 

Old  Time  has  seen  symbols,  and  creeds. 
And  races  of  men  swept  away; 

While  the  earth  was  smoking  with  blood, 
And  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  decay. 


22  TIME. 

Let  builders  build  temples  of  stone, 
Bound  strongly  with  iron  and  brass ; 

Their  years  may  be  thousands,  yet  they 
Shall  into  forgetfulness  pass. 

The  sage  may  be  led  by  the  truth — 
The  light  only  known  to  the  few ; 

But  no  seer  the  veil  can  withdraw 
That  hides  the  dark  future  from  view, 


BEG  A  Y. 


? 


E    C    A    Y 


QUE  sits  like  an  old  withered  hag 

By  a  shrine  all  broken  and  gray  ; 
The  owls  give  her  music  at  night, 
And  lizards  amuse  her  by  day. 

She  loyes  amid  ruins  to  muse, 
"Where  no  one  disturbs  her  retreat ; 

The  wrecks  of  old  altars  and  thrones 
Lie  scattered  around  at  her  feet. 

She  treads  on  green  carpets  of  moss, 
Spread  on  aisles  where  beauty  once  trod,, 

And  stares  at  grand  arches  that  rung 
With  anthems  and  praises  to  God. 

The  worms  have  drilled  holes  in  the  doors,. 
Whose  hinges  are  covered  with  rust ; 

And  turrets  and  towers  lose  their  strength,. 
And  topple  fast  down  to  the  dust.. 


24  DECAY. 

The  bells  that  were  noisy  are  mute, 
And  niches  where  images  stood 

Are  haunts  of  the  night-bird,  and  where 
The  bats  nurse  their  ravenous  brood. 

Through  windows  of  Gothic  design, 
Hung  round  with  green  ivy  festoons, 

Through  columns  the  pride  of  the  Past, 
The  wild  and  weird  winds  whistle  tunes. 

She  reigns  in  the  palace  and  cot ; 

Art  shrinks  from  her  life-wasting  breath. 
And  old  Time  declares  her  to  be 

The  haggard  twin-sister  of  -Death. 

She  blights  the  fair  rose  on  the  cheek. 
And  tames  the  wild  passions  of  lust ; 

The  flesh  leaves  the  bones  at  her  touch, 
And  the  bones  are  soon  powdered  to  dust. 

Her  eyes  arc  deep-sunken  and  dim, 
Her  hollow  cheeks  withered  and  wan  : 

And,  wrapped  in  a  mystical  cloak, 
She  grins  with  contempt  upon  man. 

Her  march  is  triumphant  and  slow, 
With  no  flaunting  banners  unfurled  ; 

No  mortal  can  tell  where  she  lives, 
Or  how  she  came  into  the  world. 


DEC  A  Y.  2~> 

Her  laws  are  not  subject  to  change, 
Nor  can  she  be  purchased  with  gold  ; 

And,   till  the  last  trumpet  shall  sound, 
Her  storv  can  never  be  told. 


26  BYGANE  BAYS. 


Bygane    Days, 


}rrUS  sweet  to  muse  on  bygane  days, 

When,  under  gentle  rule, 
"With  no  care  in  my  thoughtless  head, 

I  toddled  aff  to  schule. 
The  skylark  sung  his  morning  lays 

Up  o'er  the  daisied  lea, 
And  music  gushed  in  melting  strains 

Frae  ilka  bush  and  tree. 

The  hawthorn  wi'  its  blossoms  white, 

The  gowans  at  my  feet, 
And  clover  red  in  fragrant  fields 

Sent  forth  their  odors  sweet ; 
The  wild  rose  on  my  pathway  bloomed. 

The  flower  was  on  the  pea, 
And  heather-bells  and  gowden  broom 

Gave  honey  to  the  bee. 

I've  wandered  ower  the  mosses,  where 
The  moorland  lintie  sings, 


BTGANE  DAYS. 

And  butterflies  on  blossoms  fair 

Fold  up  their  painted  wings ; 
I've  gathered  slaes  and  berries  wild 

On  bills  that  rung  wi'  glee, 
And  aft  to  pu'  the  crimson  fruit 

I  climbed  the  rowan  tree. 

I've  wandered  ower  the  battle-fields 

That  mighty  men  have  trod, 
Seen  sacred  spots  where  marshalled  troops 

Sung  praises  to  their  God ; 
I've  stood  upon  the  hallowed  ground 

Where  Bruce  his  flag  unfurled, 
And,  by  one  bold  and  daring  stroke, 

Gave  freedom  to   the  world. 

These  were  the  bright  and  sunny  days 

Of  life's  sweet  budding  spring, 
Before  I  felt  that  manhood's  years 

Sad  cares  and  sorrows  bring. 
Time,   in  his  weary  onward  flight. 

Hath  wings  that  never  tire  ; 
But  age,  way-worn,  sinks  slowly  down. 

Outliving  passion's  fire. 

0   Scotia  !   Freedom's  chosen  land, 

Thou  still  art  dear  to  me  ; 
In  age,  the  same  as  early  youth, 

My  heart  still  clings  to  thee  ! 


28  BYOANE  DATS. 

Thy  rugged  glens  and  fertile  dales, 
Thy  mountains  wild  and  grand, 

Spring  up  in  fancy's  pleasant  dreams, 
Like  some  enchanted  land. 


GREENWOOD.  20 


Greenwood. 


rpiIE  lone  stranger  enters  a  Gothic  gate, 

And  lie  mutely  wanders  around, 
While  the  sculptured  tombs  in  their  silence  tell 
That  he  treads  upon  holy  ground. 

He  listens,  and  hears  such  a  dirge-like  sound. 

And  he  wonders  what  it  can  be; 
For  'tis  not  the  wail  of  a  broken  heart, 

Xor  the  wail  of  the  surging  sea. 

As  the  sleepers  hear  not  the  dismal  tones, 
Let  the   storm  and  the  tempest  rave ; 

For  what  reck  the  dead  for  the  wild,  weird  winds 
That  break  not  the  peace  of  the  grave  ? 

From  their  toils  and  cares  here  the  weary  sleep 
On  a  couch  that  is  damp  and  cold ; 

And  kindly  the  green  turf  hides  from  the  sight 
The  mute  forms  of  the  young  and  old. 


:*<>  GREENWOOD. 

Here  lies  pampered  wealth  with  a  tombstone  fame 
That  once  knelt  to  a  golden  god; 

And  here  merit  rests  from  an  active  life. 
Covered  up  by  the  grassy  sod. 

When  the  purple  stream  of  the  human  heart 

Xo  longer  from  its  fountain  flows, 
Tn  Death's  freezing  arms,  where  no  troubles  lurk, 

Here  the  rich  and  the  poor  repose. 

Let  defiant  pride  bend  its  haughty  head. 
And  hear  the  sermons  dead  men  preach  ; 

It  will  humbled  be,   and  deep  lessons  learn 
Which  pulpit  lore  can  never  teach. 

hi  the  winding  paths  and  the  fragrant  groves, 
"Where  graceful  art  with  nature  vies, 

And  covered  with  flowers  that  in  beauty  bloom. 
Death  coldly  sleeps  in  sweet  disguise. 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT'S  MONUMENT.  31 


Sii\    Walter    Scott's    JVLonument 

IN   CENTRAL   PARK. 


WHILE  to  Scott  wo  fondly  cling, 

Sweetest  bards  his  praises  sing ; 
And   the  glens  and  mountains  ring 
With  stirring  strains  of  melody  ; 


Let  them  bend  their  heads  in  shame 
Who  would  blot  his  glorious  name, 
Blazing  on  the  scroll  of  fame 
In  fadeless  lustre  brilliantly. 

With  a  smile  the  just  may  wear, 
'Neath  a  crushing  load  of   care 
Such  as  mortals  seldom  bear, 

He  bore  his  cross  triumphantly. 

God,  who  sends  the  grateful  shower 
To  revive  the  drooping  flower, 
Gave  him  grand  creative  power — 
The  rare  gift  of  divinity. 


32  SIB  WALTER  SCOTT'S  M0NUMEN1. 

Let  no  eyes  with  tears  be  wet, 
Heave  no  sighs  of  deep  regret, 
For  his  death  he  bravely  met — 
The  fate  of  all  humanity. 

In  his  name  the  virtues  blend, 

Honor  was  his  steadfast  friend, 

Faith  sustained  him  to  the  end 

With  hopes  of  immortality. 

Where  his  ashes  now  repose, 
Swift  the  Tweed  in  beauty  flows  ; 
And  the  weary  pilgrim  goes 

To  pay  his  homage  silently. 

Glory  with  a  ringing  sound 
Spreads  his  name  the  world  around, 
Who  made  Scotland  classic  ground, 
And  sung  her  praise  exultingly. 

O'er  the  mountain  and  the  dell 
He  could  throw  a  wizard  spell, 
And  some  thrilling  story  tell 

In  tones  of  deathless  minstrelsy. 

In  the  world  of  mighty  mind, 
His  great  name  will  live  enshrined, 
And  shall  warm  admirers  find 
In  a  remote  posterity. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT'S  MONUMENT.  33 

In  his  statue  art  can  trace 
Features  of  liis  manly  face, 
Wanting  only  living  grace 

To  give  the  form  mortality. 

As  his  fame  will  never  die, 
May  his  statue,  firm  and  high, 
While  the  storms  of  time  sweep  hy, 
Brave  all  their  might  defiantly. 


34  HIE  SPARROW!?. 


Jhe   £ 


PARROWS, 


TT7TIEN  wintry  winds   blow   bleak   and    keen,    and   snow- 
"      flakes  thickly  fall, 
Oh  !   hear  ye  not  amid  the   storm   the    starving   sparrows' 

call? 
Then,   while  your  hearts  with    kindness  swell,  give  succor 

to  the  poor, 
And  ne'er  forget  the  chirping  birds  that  hop  around  your 

door. 

They  leave  their  footprints  in  the  snow,  and  perch  on  leaf- 
less trees, 

Where,  cold  and  numb,  the  little  things  sit  trembling  in 
the  breeze ; 

They  are  for  some  wise  purpose  sent,  and  play  their  hum- 
ble part, 

And  seem  familiar  with  the  chords  that  thrill  the  human 
heart. 

They  nestle  in  some  ivied  wall,  some  crevice  in  the  eaves, 
And  rest  their  little  naked  feet  in  nests  of  withered  leaves ; 


THE  SPARROWS.  o.) 

Oft  hands  of  charity  build  cots,  where  snug  their  feathered 

forms 
Are  safe  from  winter's  biting  frosts  and  from  the  midnight 

storms. 

They  seem  to  know  the  friendly  door,  by  pinching  hunger  led; 
And  who  would  wrong  the  harmless  race  that  are  by  mercy 

fed? 
Oh  !  while  they  crave  the  simple  crumbs  that  from  your  table 

fall, 
Let  plenty  give  and  warm  hearts  beat  responsive  to  their  call, 

Soon  nature  from  a  torpid  state  to  life  anew  will  spring, 

And  vernal  winds  will  softly  blow,  and  woodlands  sweetly 
ring ; 

The  sparrows  have  no  gift  of  song,  yet,  though  their  tongues 
be  dumb, 

Their  little  breasts  will  throb  with  joy  when  buds  and  blos- 
soms come. 

0  ye  who  kneel  at  Mercy's  throne  !  if  mercy  you  would  find, 
Drive  not  the  beggar  from  your  door,  and  to  the  birds   be 

kind ; 
There  is  a  Providence  divine,  and  God,  who  rules  o'er  all, 
Supplies  the  craving  wants  of  man,  and  "  marks  the  sparrow's 

fall." 


MY  BELOVED  SON. 


M.Y   ^eloyed   Son. 

WRITTEX    FOR    A    BEREAVED    MOTHER. 


M~Y  heart  is  wrung  with,  bitter  grief, 

And  hopes  are  lowly  laid ; 
For  coldly  sleeps  my  darling  boy 
In  Greenwood's  leafy  shade. 

"When  but  an  infant  on  my  knee, 
How  witchingly  he  smiled  ! 

And  with  his  sweet  and  rosy  face 
The  weary  hours  beguiled. 

Xone  like  a  mother  e'er  can  feel. 

Or  can  her  sorrows  share  ; 
The  burden  that  weighs  down  the  soul 

Alone  she  has  to  bear. 

Methinks  I  see  his  curly  locks, 

His  little  manly  brow ; 
And,  oh  !   I'd  give  a  thousand  worlds, 

Could  I  but  kiss  him  now. 


MY  BELOVED  SOJSf.  31 

My  broken  heart  would  leap  with  joy, 

No  more  be  wrung  with  pain, 
Could  I  but  snatch  him  from  the  grave, 

And  bring  him  back  again. 

But  why  muse  on  such  idle  dreams, 

On  things  that  ne'er  can  be  ? 
Yet  while  I  live,  departed  son, 

My  thoughts  will  be  of  thee  ! 

There  is  a  hope  to  which  I  cling — 

That,  in  a  realm  of  joy, 
We'll  meet  again  to  part  no  more, 

My  dear,  beloved  boy  ! 


38  LINES  TO  AN  OLD  TOOTH. 


Lines    to    an    Old    Tooth. 


TMITHFUL,  bygone  masticator  ! 

Though  not  a  thing  of  beauty, 
For  threescore  long  and  weary  years 

Thou  hast  performed  thy  duty. 
Reluctantly  we  part,  old  friend  ! 

Iladst  thou  been  rooted  stronger, 
I  have  no  doubt  but  at  thy  post 

Thou  wouldst  have  lingered  longer. 


Mute  relic  of  a  grinding  race, 

That  once  shone  bright  and  pearly, 
80  firmly  set  in  coral  gums 

Beside  thy  comrades  early, 
Thou  art  a  brave  part  of  myself — 

The   aider   of  digestion ; 
In  crushing  piles  to  shapeless  hash, 

None  dared  thy  skill  to  question. 

The  hardest  nuts  that  ever  grew 
Tried  oft  thy  stubborn  mettle  ; 

But,  like  all  other  things,   they  failed 
Thy  firmness  to  unsettle. 


LINES  TO  AN  OLD  TOOTH.  39 

As   grim   Decay  did  not  succeed 

In  piercing  thee  with   drilling, 
Thou  hadst  no  caverns  deep  and  dark 

Requiring  dental  filling. 

Thy   setting  grew   so   old   and  void 

Of   sympathetic  feeling, 
It   shrunk   and  left  thee   standing  bare. 

Like   some  poor  drunkard  reeling. 
0   life-long  friend  !  for  ever  proud 

Of  thy  time-honored   calling, 
Thy  kindred   organs   feel  the   loss 

Of  thy  untimely  falling. 

With,  fever  hot  the  head  might  reel, 

And  hands  might  be  unsteady ; 
But,   true   to   thy  allotted  task, 

Thou  wert  for   ever  ready — 
A   slave   to   my  capricious  will, 

A  chattel,    dumb   and   senseless, 
That   stood   so  long   in   danger's  ranks, 

A   hero   all   defenceless. 

The   tongue,    which   antedates  thy  birth, 

Thy  busy,    chatty  neighbor, 
It  claims  to  be  to  some  extent 

Partaker  of  thy  labor. 
Amongst   all   other  mortal  friends, 

INone   to  thy  end  stood  nearer, 


40  LINES  TO  AN  OLD   TOOTH. 

And,  trusting   in   thy  certain   aid, 
It   spoke   in  accents   clearer. 

Companion   of   my  wayward  life, 

In  travels  far  and  pleasant, 
'Hi rough  tropic   climes   and  regions   bleak. 

Thou  wert  for  ever  present. 
Long   carried  proudly  in  my  mouth. 

Now  resting  in  my  pocket, 
Thou   hast  no  heir  to  fill  thy  place, 

Thy  lone,    deserted  socket. 

Thy  fellows  may  to   Greenwood  go, 

With  hearse-plumes  waving  o'er  them. 
And  in  the  grave  unheeded  lie, 

Like  millions  gone  before  them  ; 
But  as  for  thee,  poor  lifeless  thing, 

Satis  tale  of  shame  or  glory, 
I'll  keep  thee  amongst  fossils  rare 

As  a  memento  mori. 


THE  CENTENARIAN. 


JHE     p 


ENTENARIAN. 


T  AM  dreary  and  chill,  I  am  feeble  and  old, 

And  the  life-giving  rays  of  the  warm  sim  are  cold  \ 
From  the  keen  frosts  of  age  to  what  land  can  I  flee  ? 
What  is  summer  to  youth  is  bleak  winter  to  me. 

For  what  object  I'm  spared,  for  what  purpose  I  live, 
Human  wisdom  is  dumb,  and  no  reason  can  give  ; 
I  have  nothing  to  love,  I  have  nothing  to  crave, 
And  life's  sun  will  soon  set  in  the  night  of  the  grave. 

All  my  fond-cherished  schemes  like  sweet  visions  have  fled, 
And  the  friends  of  my  youth  and  my  kindred  are  dead  ; 
I  am  deaf  as  a  rock  that  is  dashed  by  the  sea, 
And  am  withered  and  gnarled  like  an  old  sapless  tree. 

Xaught  can  gladden  my  heart — I  am  weary  of  strife, 

And  can  struggle  no  more  in  the  battle  of  life ; 

As  my  trust  is  in  God,  so  I  fear  not  my  end, 

And  I  know,  when  Death  comes,  he  will  come  as  a  friend. 
G 


42  THE  CENTENARIAN. 

As  I  sit  by  the  door,  lone  and  desolate  now, 
Where  the  winds  kindly  fan  my  old  time-wrinkled  brow, 
I  oft  dream  of  the  past  with  eyes  brimming  with  tears, 
And  a  mind  that  gets  lost  in  the  dark  mists  of  years. 

Oh  !   I  once  had  a  wife — dear  companion  to  me  ! 
She  was  gentle  and  sweet  as  a  mortal  can  be  ; 
Soon  she  languished  and  died,  and  at  one  fatal  blow 
All  my  hopes  and  my  peace  in  her  grave  were  laid  low. 

For  a  season  too  brief  with  a  child  I  was  blest : 
With  her  mother  she  lies,  where  the  world-weary  rest  ; 
And  they  sleep  in  one  grave  ?neath  a  green  willow-tree, 
Where  the  birds  sweetly  sing,  though  they  sing  not  for  me. 

Age  has  bleached  my  hair  white,  and  so  dim  is  my  sight 
That  clear  noon  I  scarce  know  from  the  darkness  of  night ; 
With  a  feeble,  bent  form,  a  heart  crushed  with  despair, 
The  sad  burden  of  life  is  too  heavy  to  bear. 

The  cold  creeps  up  my  limbs,  and  the  red  stream  grows  chill ; 
Soon  the  fountain  will  freeze,  and  for  ever  be  still ; 
Though  my  body  is  weak,  I  am  strong  in  my  faith, 
And  long  to  pass  through  the  dark  shadows  of  death. 


10  MY  DAUGHTER  JOSEPHINE.  43 


To    my    Daughter   Josephine. 


A    PART   of   my  being  !   so  loving  and  free, 

In  joy  or  in  sorrow,  my  dreams  are  of  thee  ! 
In  each  kindred  feature,  in  each  striking  line, 
I  see  my  own  image  traced  nicely  in  thine. 

When  lonely  and  weary  I  think  of  the  past, 
And  glance  at  the  future  with  shadows  o'ercast, 
Oh  !   quick  as  the  moments  that  rapidly  flee 
Revert  my  sad  musings,  sweet  daughter,  to  thee  ! 

Through  all  trying  changes,  he  happy  as  now, 
With  no  clouds  of  sorrow  o'erhanging  thy  brow; 
What  rude  hand  so  daring  as  seek  to  displace 
The  bright  sunny  gladness  that  beams  on  thy  face  ? 

Be  peaceful  thy  slumbers,  unshadowed  thy  way, 
And  time  spare  thy  beauty  from  speedy  decay ; 
And,  oh  !   my  fair  daughter,  so  gentle  and  kind, 
May  life's  heavy  burden  rest  light  on  thy  mind. 


44  TO  MY  DA  VGUTER  JOSEPHINE. 

Where'er  thou  mayst  wander,  my  hope  and  my  pride, 
May  faith  be  thy  comfort,  and  virtue  thy  guide  ; 
Thy  heart,  warm  and  tender,  by  care  never  wrung, 
Unwounded  by  envy,  by  malice  unstung. 

Shun  snares  in  life's  pathway  that  shine  to  allure 
A  peace  that  is  holy,  a  heart  that  is  pure  ; 
And  when  in  thy  chamber  thou  bendest  the  knee, 
Remember  thy  father,  who  fondly  loves  thee  ! 


NIL  DESPERANDUM.  45 


j^IL  p 


ESPERANDUM, 


/  \  YE  weary  and  brave  !   while  ye  battle  with  Care, 

Shut  the  door  of  the  heart  against  haggard  Despair; 
For  the  tottering  hopes  upon  which  you  have  leaned 
May  be  withered  and  crushed  by  the  merciless  fiend. 

Though  the  clouds  gather  fast,  and  the  light  be  withdrawn, 
Soon  the  darkness  will  fade  at  the  breaking  of  dawn, 
And  hopes  that  seem  dead  spring  to  beauty  anew, 
Like  the  sweet  drooping  flowers  that  are  nursed  by  the  dew. 

Though  the  tempest  be  wild  and  the  drifting  bark  frail, 

And  dark  ruin  and  death  seem  to  ride  on  the  gale, 

Soon  the  winds  spend  their  strength,   and  tired  waves   fall 

asleep, 
And  the  soft  zephyrs  fan  the  calm  face  of  the  deep. 

On  the  pathway  of  life,   sad  and  gloomy  appear 
The  dim  shadows  of  grief  and  the  phantoms  of  fear ; 
But  when  bright  rays  of  hope  the  heart's  deep  chambers  fill, 
Lo  !   tliev  vanish  like  mist  from  the  brow  of  the  hill. 


4G  r2V7Z  BESPERANDU3L 

There  are  losses  we  weep,  there  are  crosses  we  bear, 
And  keen  pangs  that  we  feel  that  no  mortal  can  share  ; 
And  oft  wrongs  in  the  heart  are  concealed  and  untold 
Which  pride  hides  from  the  world  that  is  selfish  and  cold. 

We  may  bask  in  fond  smiles,  we  may  gaze  upon  tears, 
But  the  heart  is  unseen  that  is  trembling  with  fears  ; 
Who  can  coldly  look  on  and  see  loved  ones  laid  low, 
And  hopes  scattered  like  leaves  when  the  autumn  winds  blow  ? 

Until  tears  dim  the  eye  and  grief  seams  the  fair  brow, 
Love  may  cherish  a  hope  the  tongue  dare  not  avow  ; 
In  the  breast  that  is  true  lurks  no  spirit  of  guile, 
And  the  brave  can  lie  down  and  meet  death  with  a  smile. 

When  W^ant  enters  the  door,  hollow  friends  may  depart, 
And  no  sunshine  of  joy  cheer  the  desolate  heart. 
Let  us  bravely  toil  on ;  soon  the  light  may  appear 
That  will  chase  from  the  soul  all  the  darkness  of  fear. 

Buds  and  blossoms  may  fade,  and  sweet  beauty  may  die, 
While  the  living  may  weep  or  in  sorrow  may  sigh ; 
Hope,  still  beaming  with  love  when  the  spirit  has  fled, 
Leaves  a  lingering  smile  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

When  the  burden  of  life  is  too  heavy  to  bear, 

Let  Faith  live  in  the  heart,  and  sweet  Hope  nestle  there  ; 

And  the  angel  of  death  may  soon  usher  you  in 

To  a  home  that  is  pure  and  untainted  by  sin. 


AN  ENIGMA.  47 


f*  f 


NIGMA. 


TN  the  depths  of  the  sea,  in  the  planets  above, 

In  the  regions  of  woe,  and  the  mansions  of  love, 
There's  a  something  that  reigns  and  not  subject  to  law- 
Self -existent,  a  something  that  God  never  saw ; 
'Tis  eternal  like  matter,  and,  knowing  no  birth, 
It  first  saw  beauty  spring  from  the  rugged,  dull  earth  ; 
7Tis  unerring  in  wisdom,  untouched  by  decay, 
Pervading  all  space  with  a  limitless  sway ; 
'Tis  a  something  divine,  and  the  stars  of  the  night 
Are  the  jewels  that  shine  on  its  diadem  bright ; 
So  enshrined  in  a  glory  without  stain  or  flaw, 
Canst  thou  tell,  then,  0  mortal !  what  God  never  saw  ? 


48  SLA  VES  OF  FASHION. 


Slaves   of  F 


LAVES     OF     f  ASHION. 


T17IIAT  though  their  heads  be  dull  as  lead 

And  thick  as  granite  boulders, 
Let  ribbons  flaunt  like  streamers  gay 

Adown  their  necks  and  shoulders ; 
And  let  them  go  like  saints  to  church, 

Sans  brains  with  graceful  carriage  ; 
Their  smiles,  like  snares,  may  catch  the  fools 

That  laugh  at  vows  of  marriage. 

Thus  Fashion's  slaves  wed  golden  knaves 

That  fill  their  homes  with  sorrow, 
And  solemn  vows  made  fresh  to-day 

Are  broken  on  the  morrow ; 
They  see  how  loose  are  priestly  knots, 

See  hopes  like  blossoms  wither, 
And  learn  too  late  that  love  alone 

Can  bind  fond  hearts  together. 


MAGGIE  MITCHELL.  40 


Maggie     Mitchell, 


1)  0]S  NIE  Maggie,  young  and  fair  ! 

Little  fairy  !  jewel  rare  ! 
Virtue  on  her  spotless  throne 
Proudly  claims  thee  as  her  own, 
And,  to  form  thy  sprightly  mind, 
All  the  graces  have  combined  ; 
With  thy  witching  charms  of  art 
Thou  canst  thrill  the  human  heart, 
Tame  the  passions  strong  and  wild, 
Nature's  sweet  and  wondrous  child  ! 

Bonnie  Maggie,   fair  and  young, 
Be  thou  free  from  Slander's  tongue  ; 
Free  from  pain  and  free  from  sin, 
Smiles  without,   and  peace  within  ; 
Free  from  keen  affliction's  rod, 
Cheered  by  hope  with  faith  in  God; 
And,   0  Maggie  !  beauteous  maid, 
May  thy  laurels  never  fade, 
Life  be  as  a  pleasant  dream, 
Gliding  down  time's  rapid  stream. 


5Q  MAGGIE  MITCHELL. 

Fortune's  child,  though  wealth  he  thine, 
"Never  kneel  at  Mammon's  shrine  ; 
Where  his  slaves  are  firmly  hound, 
Withered  hopes  lie  strewn  around  ; 
Men  whose  brows  are  seamed  by  care 
Bend  the  knee  and  worship  there  ; 
If  thou  wouldst  be  truly  blest, 
Seek  the  peaceful  shades  of  rest, 
Where  thy  calm  and  cultured  mind 
Lasting  joys  may  always  find. 

Who  would  wish  to  cling  to  earth  ? 
Death  is  but  a  second  birth ; 
Love  and  beauty  ne'er  decay 
In  the  realm  of  endless  day  ; 
Through  this  vale  of  tears  and  strife 
Mayst  thou  lead  a  happy  life, 
Longing  for  the  golden  prize 
Wisely  hid  from  mortal  eyes  ; 
Living  with  a  stainless  name, 
Fadeless  glory  be  thine  aim. 


LOVE  AND  REVENGE.— MILES  STANJDISIL  51 


Love   and    Revenge. 


T\EEP  down  in  the  heart  glow  the  fires  of  hell, 

Where  wild  passions  are  wedded  to  fate, 
And  where  slighted  love  pants  for  dark  revenge, 

In  a  spirit  of  fiendish  hate. 
Honor  feels  the  sting  of  a  bitter  wrong, 

And,  with  soul  that  is  proud  and  brave, 
It  will  cure  its  wounds  in  the  blood  of  guilt, 

On  the  brink  of  a  yawning  grave. 


Miles    Standish. 


TjST  days  of   old,   Miles  Standish  preached 
-*-     Amid  wild  and  barren  rocks, 
And  Pilgrims  grave  with  sonls  to  save 

Heard  his  teachings  orthodox. 
Descendants  of  the  Mayfloiver  saints  ! 

Should  yon  desire  a  teacher, 
Join  Fashion's  train  in  Plymouth  Church, 

And  hear  soul-saving  Beecher. 


DESTINY 


? 


E   S  T  I    N   V 


TT  has  aye  been  the  case,  and  it  will  be  to  the  end, 

The  tae  half  o'  the  warl  kensna  how  the  ither  fend  ; 
Gif  folk  are  nnco  poor,  they're  no  fashed  wi'  mnckle  care — 
A  strong  arm  and  licht  heart  can  a  weary  burden  bear. 

Contentment  is  a  bliss  that  the  rich  may  never  ken, 
Frae  some  wee  theekit  cot  hae  aft  sprung  our  muckle  men  ; 
Tho'  halls  o'  pride  may  ring  wi'  the  sounds  o'  merry  glee, 
The  palace  ne'er  was  built  that's  frae  human  troubles  free. 

There  are  dreams  o'  the  past  that  we  wadna  like  to  tine, 
That  ne'er  dee  in  the  heart,  and  mak'  haly  auld  langsyne  ; 
When  eild  comes  creepin'  on,  and  life's  gloaming  drawin  near, 
"Tis  sweet  to  cherish  thochts  that  are  still  to  mem'ry  dear. 

We  dinna  mind  the  time  when  our  life  was  in  its  dawn, 

We  drank  the  milk  o'  love,  fresh  frae  love's  warm  fountain 

drawn  ; 
But  mem'ry  minds  fu  weel  Jang  ere  thochts  gaed  far  aglee. 
When  bricht  the  peat  fire  blazed  neth  the  big  pat  on  the  swee. 


DESTINY.  53 

Bairns  may  hae  hackit  heels,  trin  aboot  wi'  broken  taes, 

And   haughty  scorn  may  sneer  at  the  wee  things'  tattered 

claes  ; 
But  wha  can  read  their  fate,  wha  can  tell  what  they  may  be  ? 
Bricht  gems  are  in  the  yirth,  and  dull  pearls  are  in  the  sea. 

What  tho'  in  cloutit  duds  they  gang  barefit  to  the  schule, 
And  mony  cuffs  may  dree  by  some  petty  tyrant's  rule  ? 
The  wee  smowts  parritch-fed,  wi'  their  rosy  cheeks  o'  health, 
May  lang  afore  they  dee  be  great  men  o'  worth  and  wealth. 

Sae,  wha  wad  scrimp  their  farls,  wha  their  luggies  Wad  mak 

sma', 
( )r  wha  wad  keep  them  doun  gif  they  ettle  to  be  braAV  ? 
Wi'  young  hearts  fu'  o'  glaiks,  and  their  wee  heids  fu'  o'  fan, 
They  mak'  their  baws  o'  tow,  and  they  fire  their  bourtree  gur. 

Some  bairns  to  callants  grow,  and  the  carritch  weel  they  learn, 
(let  heels  owre  heid  in  love  ere  a  bawbee  they  can  earn  ; 
Their  hearts  are  in  a  lowe,  and  there's  glamour  in  their  een, 
And  buckled  they  maun  get  as  their  gutchers  auld  hae  been. 

Mean  folks  may  siccar  be,  and  may  hain  what  they  can  spare* 
And  when  eneugh  they  get,  they  may  pant  and  grien  for  mair  ;. 
But  gear  begets  na  peace,  and,  whaur  comforts  seem  sae  rife,. 
Hopes  fade  and  hearts  are  wrung  in  maist  ilka  sphere  o'  life.. 

The  mind  is  no'  a  thing  that  mere  human  art  can  frame, 
It  lifts  cauld  poortith  up,  and  it  tak's  the  gaet  to  fame  ; 


>>±  DESTINY. 

Ye  wha  on  creepies  sit  may  yet  fill  some  chair  o'  state, 
And  names  that  aince  were  low  may  be  numbered  wi'   the 
great. 

It  is  a  dowie  hame  glisks  o'  sunshine  disna  cheer, 

Whaur  nae  kind  han'  o'  love  dichts  frae  sorrow's  cheek  the 

tear ; 
The   doure   may  yarp   and  girn,   honest  toil  may  save  frae 

shame, 
It's  a'  richt  to  hae  faith,  but  it  winna  stech  the  wame. 

Let  creeds  and  freets  abee,  and  shake  aff  a'  courin  fear, 
The  gaet  that  a'  maun  gang  nane  but  coof s  wad  ever  specr ; 
Tak'  reason  for  your  guide,  and  aye  keep  awa  frae  sin, 
And  in  the  end  ye  may  a  bricht  crown  o'  glory  win. 


COMMON  SENSE. 


Common    Sense. 


A  S  the  guid  for  some  end  hae  aft  muckle  to  dree, 
■^     It  is  better,  my  frien',  to  let  some  things   abce  ; 
When  a  -man  is  laigh  doun,  we  sud  gie  him  a  heeze, 
And  aye  keep  the  heart  warm,  lest  our  feelins  snd  freeze. 

Let  the  priests  rave  and  rant  aboot  brnmstane  and  hell, 
( \  od  has  gien  ye  a  mind  aye  to  think  for  yonrsel ; 
Bring  your  reason  to  bear  on  the  stranght  moral  line. 
And  ye'll  see  it  is  traced  by  a  hand  that's  divine. 

As  our  time  is  but  short  and  our  wants  are  but  sma', 
Sune  life's  sun  will  gang  doun,  and  the  mools  cover  a'; 
But  while  brichtly  it  shines,  we  sud  bask  in  its  rays, 
And  be  couthie  and  guid  to  the  end  o'  our  days. 

Fools  may  just  as  weel  try  to  get  honey  frae  saut 
As  to  fin'  ane  on  earth  without  some  bit  wee  faut ; 
There's  nae  warld  that  we  ken  that  is  free  frae  a'  strife, 
Still,  to  love  and  be  loved  is  the  object  o'  life. 


ob  COMMON  SENSE. 

As  the  man  o'  soun'  sense  his  ain  worth  never  blaws, 
Let  ns  search  for  the  guid,  and  be  blin'  to  wee  flaws  ; 
But  tho'  strong  ties  sud  break  and  auld  frien'ships  sud  part, 
Tear  the  mask  frae  the  loun  that  is  hollow  at  heart. 

Patience  tholes  wi'  a  man  wi'  his  harns  unco  saft ; 
Pity  feels  for  the  chiel  that's  catwittit  and  daft ; 
But  the  wlmrliwha  scamp  wi'  a  tongue  o'  deceit 
Wha  wad  virtue  destroy  sud  be  lashed  thro'  the  street. 

Coofs  wi'  siller  may  brag  o'  their  ill-gotten  gains, 
And  may  sneer  at  the  poor  wi'  poAvs  stecht  f  u'  o'  brains  ; 
But  the  humble  may  rise,  and  the  proud  hae  a  fa', 
Like  a  snaw-wreath  is  gowd  that  may  sune  melt  awa. 

Vice  may  weave  a  thick  veil  that  may  hide  for  a  time 
A'  the  howtfs  whaur  her  sons  learn  their  lessons  o'  crime  ; 
She  may  prate  o'  her  slaves  that  to  fause  pleasures  cleave, 
But,  like  Spunkie,  she  shines  on  life's  waste  to  deceive. 

Without  siller,  my  frien',  it  is  gey  hard  to  fend, 
But  gif  toil  be  yer  lot,  ye  may  win  in  the  end ; 
Tho'  the  gaet  may  be  mirk  that  thro'  life  ye  maun  gae, 
Aye  keep  up  a  licht  heart  while  ye  speel  the  stey  brae. 

To  be  buckled  is  guid  gif  nae  taupie  ye  wed, 

Sac  be  sure  ye  wale  ane  that's  weelfaurVl  an  weel  bred  ; 

The  best  blessin'  o'  earth  is  a  marrow  for  life 

Of  wohm  virtue  feels  proud  as  a  mither  and  wife. 


COMMON  SENSE.  i 

And  whate'er  be  ycr  faith,  and  whatever  be  yer  creed. 
Never  turn  a  deef  lag  to  the  bairnics  o'  need  ; 
Sud  a'  things  thrive  weel  and  nae  mishaps  beta', 
Ne'er  forget  an  auld  frien'  when  his  back's  at  tlie   wa'. 

Ye  may  aiblins  be  rich,   or  may  be  unco  poor, 
But  ye'  canna  keep  Death  lang  awa  frae  yer  door  ; 
He  is  true  to  his  trust,   and  he  girns  at  man's  gowd, 
While  his  cauld  ban'  o'  ice  rows  aim  up  in  a  shroud. 

There's  an  Eye  that  ne'er  sleeps  frae  whilk  nae  man  can  flee. 
And  a  bulk  kept  aboon  that  nae  mortal  can  see  ; 
There  is  due  credit  gien  for  gnid  deeds  that  we  do, 
So  I  bid  ye,  auld  frien',  for  the  present  adieu ! 


THE   WO ND ERF  IP   GALLANT. 


The    Wonderfu1    Gallant, 


"\I7T  a  round  bit  bruckit  face  and  tousie  lieid  o'  hair, 
He  thrives  like  a  thistle  wild  wi'  unco  little  care  ; 
Tho'  he's  clad  in  cloutit  duds  wi'  hackit  hands  and  toes, 
Sound  in  health  wi'  gustfu'  air  he  gorbles  up  his  brose. 

The  wee  pawkie  laddie  dreams  o'  playmates  at  the  schools, 
0'  his  ba's  and  dozin  taps  and  pouches  fu'  o'  bools  ; 
Wi'  the  art  that  bairns  soon  learn  he  gars  his  pearie  birr, 
And  rins  like  a  whittret  gleg  ahint  a  ginglin'  girr. 

Whaur  white  clouds  in  beauty  hing  ower  fields  o'  wavin'  green, 
Up  whaur  skylarks  sing  their  sangs  his  dragon  may  be  seen  ; 
His  bit  heart  wi'  rapture  loups  ;  the  prince  that  wears  a  croun 
Never  feels  a  thrill  o'  joy  like  this  wee  ragged  loun. 

What  kens  he  o'  rackin'  pains,   o'  fevers,   and  o'  chills  ? 
Puir  folk  ne'er  hae  shilpit  gorbs  that  live  on  drugs  and  pills  ; 
On  nae  feather-bed  he  rests,  but  on  a  laigh  shakedown, 
And,  wi'  pussie  by  his  side,  nae  ane  could  sleep  mair  soun. 

On  his  rabbits  and  his  doos  the  callant  kindly  dauts,'- 
And  his  mither's  love  is  blin'  to  a'  his  wee  bit  f auts ; 


THE   WONDERFU'   GALLANT.  o& 

And  to  please  licr  notions   guid,  and  keep  awa  the  deil, 
He  aft  reads  the  buik  o'  Faith,  and  learns  the  carritch  wee] 

See  him  wi'  his  shinty  club,  and  see  him  hail  his  ba\ 
Pechin  hard  the  lave  may  riii,  he  fairly  bangs  them  a' ; 
Ilka  thing  the  birkie  tries  he  bravely  bears  the  gree, 
And,  nae  matter  what  he  says,  he  scorns  to  tell  a  lee. 

The  anld  notes  his  grannie  croons  he  whistles  and  he  sings  ; 
Fond  o'  noise  like  ither  bairns,  his  bummer  round  he  swings  ; 
When  schule  weans  wad  do  him  wrang,  and  he  is  no'  to  blame, 
Ae  lick  frae  his  hardy  nieve  will  send  them  greetin'  hame. 

When  the  snaw  is  on  the  moor,  and  sheep  are  in  the  fauld, 
And  the  frosts  lock  up  the  burns,  and  winds  blaw  snell  and 

cauld, 
Till  his  rosy  cheeks  get  blae  wi'  drift  that  blins  the  ee, 
You  can  see  him  in  the  fecht  whaur  snawba's  thickest  ilee. 

Tho'  he  scarts  the  parritch  pat,  has  bauchles  on  his  feet, 
Still,  beneath  a  creeshie  brat  a  noble  heart  may  beat ; 
What  the  future  has  in  store  we  wisely  dinna  ken, 
The  boy-hero  yet  may  be  a  hero  amang  men. 

We  ken  only  what  he  is,  but  no'  what  he  may  be, 

What  lies  hidden  in  the  brain  the  wisest  canna  see  ; 

But  the  time  will  come  when  worth,  and  not  the  chance  o' 

birth, 
A  strong  ruling  power  shall  be  and  felt  throughout  the  earth. 


CO  JOHN  CENTER. 


John     Center. 


TT  E  was  taught  in  the  Hielan's  his  ain  mithcr  tongue, 

And  pliilibegs  graced  bis  tengli  hurdies  when  young  ; 
When  a  callant,  he  played  on  the  bagpipes  fn'  weel, 
And  wad  cany  to  market  a  pack  or  a  creel. 

John's  a  pure-blooded  Celt,  and  is  nae  human  cur, 
And  will  stick  to  a  frien'  firm  and  fast  as  a  burr  ; 
AYhen  louns  heartless  wad  crush  or  laws  siccar  oppress, 
A  kind  lug  he  tiye  lends  to  the  tale  o'  distress. 

Altho'  no  unco  buirdly,  he's  wiry  in  frame, 
And  for  labor  wad  pit  swankie  birkies  to  shame  ; 
Ever  free  frae  a'  pride,  save  the  pride  o'  a  man 
That  will  do  for  himsel'  aye  the  best  that  he  can. 

Let  poortith  stare  at  him  wi'  a  purse  that  is  toon?, 
And  just  gie  him  a  desert,  he'll  sune  make  it  bloom  ; 
What  cares  he  tho'  his  gear  may  amount  na'  to  much, 
Since  maist  ilka  thing  turns  into  gowd  at  his  touch  ? 


JO  UN  CENTER.  61 

He's  aye  busy  at  wark,  and,  as  sure's  ye're  alive, 
Like  the  queen-bee  he'll  banish  the  drones  frae  his  hive  ; 
He  can  flourish  whaur  ithers  wad  perish  and  rot, 
But  for  bairn-getting  John  micht  as  weel.be  a  stot  ! 

Wi'  an  eye  that  is  keen  and  a  head  that  is  soun', 
Ye  can  scarce  fin'  his  match  a'  the  hale  kintra  roun' ; 
He  is  blest  wi'  strong  sense,  and  the  pawkie  odd  brick 
Cares  as  little  for  priests  as  he  does  for  auld  N ick. 

He  still  fechts  wi'  the  courts  and  he  fechts  wi'  the  laws, 
And  he  shows  how  the  land-deeds  are  covered  wi'  flaws  ; 
But  nae  matter  how  cloudy  John's  claims  may  appear, 
He  can  read  thro'  the  darkness  his  ain  title  clear. 

The  great  chieftain  o'  squatters  is  law-read  and  wise, 
And  frae  marshes  o'  mud  he's  made  beauty  arise  ; 
Were  the  place  only  fit  for  puir  mortals  to  dwell, 
He  wad  strongly  dispute  the  deil's  title  to  hell ! 

Like  the  cock  on  the  middin  that  craws  unco  crouse, 
Sae  auld-farrant  and  couthie  he  rules  his  ain  house  ; 
Owre  the  nappy  wi  friens  he  is  dead-sweer  to  part, 
And  a  bonnie  bit  lass  can  dance  aff  wi'  his  heart. 

As  time  dims  the  bricht  ee  and  seams  deep  the  brent  brow, 
So  the  winter  o'  age  will  soon  whiten  the  pow  ; 
Wi'  a  conscience  that's  clear  and  an  air  o'  content, 
Oh  !  may  ilk  ane  look  back  at  a  lifetime  weel  spent. 


62  THE  HAPPY  PAIR. 


The    Happy    Paif^ 


rp HERE'S  a  coutliie  bit  body,  a  cantie  auld  cock, 

Wha  is  kent  by  the  odd  name  o'  Bob  Gowenlock ; 
Time  has  mown  a'  the  hair  frae  the  tap  o'  his  croun, 
Yet  still  left  him,  tho'  threescore  an'  twa,  nnco  soun. 

Idle  clashes  an'  clavers  he  ne'er  minds  ava, 
But  has  aye  got  a  kind  word  to  say  aboot  a' ; 
To  the  wee  fauts  o'  ithers  this  guid  man  is  blind, 
And  a  heart  that  is  warmer  wad  hard  be  to  find. 

Blest  wi'  plenty,  auld  Bob  is  a  frien'  to  the  poor, 
And  the  beggar  in  want  finds  relief  at  his  door ; 
Wi'  the  best  o'  mankind  there  is  aye  some  bit  flaw, 
So,  if  he  is  nae  perfect,  his  failings  are  sma'. 

The  carl  likes  his  drap  toddy,  a  pinch  o'  guid  snuff, 
And  whiles  wi'  a  cuttie  pipe  takes  a  bit  puff  ; 
When  cronies  aboot  him  in  festive  mirth  stand, 
lie  will  sing  the  auld  sangs  o'  his  ain  native  land. 


THE  HAPPY  PAIR.  03 

He  is  blest  wi'  a  leal  and  a  kind-hearted  wife, 
Wha  has  shared  a'  his  cares  thro'  the  maist  o'  his  life  ; 
Oh  !  the  sweet,  hinnied  words  that  fa'  saft  frae  her  tongue 
Cast  around  him  love's  sunshine  as  when  they  were  young. 

The  guid  Buik  frae  whase  pages  the  blind  seek  for  licht 
The  auld  pair  read  a  portion  o't  mornin'  and  nicht ; 
As  they  feel  that  life's  blessings  a'  come  frae  above, 
So  their  hame  is  the  hame  o'  contentment  and  love. 

A'  Bob's  riches  were  gained  by  the  sweat  o'  his  brow, 
And  when  toiling  for  age  he  was  happy  as  now  ; 
Aye  content  wi'  the  sphere  where  his  lot  was  lang  cast, 
He  delights  wi'  his  fricns  yet  to  crack  o'  the  past. 

Things  are  never  sae  pure  that  there's  nae  room  to  mend, 
And  the  frugal  will  aye  fin'  oot  some  way  to  fend  ; 
In  the  springtime  provide  for  the  autumn  o'  life, 
And  wale  weel  aboon  a'  things,  a  trusty,  guid-wife. 


64  JAMIE  MCGINN. 


Jamie    McGinn, 
a  comical  undertaker  of  san  francisco. 


H 


ERE  sleeps  my  old  friend,  Irish  Jamie  McGinn. 
"Who  gave  up  the  ghost  with  a  comical  grin  ; 


He  thought  all  the  rogues  would  be  left  in  the  lurch 

Who  put  not  their  faith  in  the  old  Mother  Church  ; 

Of  gin  he  was  fond,  and  could  relish  a  feast, 

And  count  his  round  beads  with  the  grace  of  a  priest. 

For  long  years  before  Jamie's  own  spirit  fled, 

He  laughed  with  the  living,  and  buried  the  dead  ; 

At  the  half-way  house  known  as  Purgatory, 

He  was  rubbed  and  scrubbed  and  made  fit  for  glory ; 

Yea,  even  the  stain  of  original  sin 

Was  washed  from  the  hide  of  saint  Jamie  McGinn. 


LINES.— AFFINITY  AND  DIVINITY.  65 


Lines 
written  the  night  before  i  left  california, 

OCTOBER   17,    1870. 

WILL  remember  till  life's  close 
A  A  few  friends  warm  and  kind  ; 
Hut  little  else  I  have  to  leave 

Save  buried  hopes  behind. 


Lines 

written  the  morning  of  leaving  california. 

TjUREWELL,  my  friends  !   a  long  farewell, 

To  each  and  all  a  fond  adieu  ! 
Within  my  breast  a  grateful  heart 

Through  life  shall  ne'er  turn  cold  to  you. 


Affinity    and    Divinity. 

A  S  chemists  never  doubt  the  truth 

Of  physical  affinity, 
So  goodness  magnet-like  draws  man 
The  nearer  to  Divinity. 


SONGS. 


I   Feel   J«m   Growing   Auld,    Gude-wife. 


|"  FEEL  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
My  steps  are  frail,  my  een  are  bleared, 

My  pow  is  unco  bauld. 
I've  seen  the  snaws  o'  fourscore  years 

O'er  hill  and  meadow  fa', 
And,  hinnie  !   were  it  no  for  you, 

Pd  gladly  slip  awa\ 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
Frae  youth  to  age  I've  keepit  warm 

The  love  that  ne'er  turned  cauld. 
I  canna  bear  the  dreary  thocht 

That  we  maun  sindered  be  ; 
There's  naething  binds  my  poor  auld  heart 

To  earth,  gude-wife,  but  thee. 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife — 
I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 


70  I  FEEL  I'M  GROWING  A  VLB,  GUBE-WIFE. 

Life  seems  to  me  a  wintry  waste, 

The  yery  sun  feels  cauld. 
Of  worldly  f riens  ye've  been  to  me 

Amang  them  a'  the  best ; 
Now  I'll  lay  down  my  weary  head, 

Gude-wife,  and  be  at  rest, 


1AK'  BACK  2IIE  MING,   DEAR  JAMIE.  Tl 


Tak1   Back  the   Ring,    Deaf^  Jamie, 


rpAK'  back  the  ring,  dear  Jamie, 

The  ring  ye  gae  to  me, 
An'  a'  the  tows  ye  made  yestreen 

Beneath  the  birken-tree. 
But  gie  me  back  my  heart  again, 

It's  a'  I  hae  to  gie  ; 
Sin'  ye'll  no  wait  a  fittin'  time, 

Ye  canna  marry  me. 

I  promised  to  my  dadclie^ 

Afore  he  slipp'd  awa, 
I  ne'er  wad  leave  my  minnie, 

Whate'er  sud  her  befa' 
I'll  faithfu'  keep  my  promise, 

For  a'  that  ye  can  gie : 
Sae,  Jamie,  gif  ye  winna  wait, 

Ye  ne'er  can  marry  me. 

I  canna  leave  my  minnie, 
She's  been  sae  kind  to  me 


TAIC  BACK  THE  RING,   DEAR  JAMIE. 

Sin'  e'er  I  was  a  bairnie, 

A  wee  tiling  on  her  knee. 
Xae  mair  she'll  cairn  my  gowden  hair, 

Noi  busk  me  snod  an'  braw ; 
She's  auld  an'  frail,  her  een  are  dim. 

An'  sune  will  close  on  a'. 

1  maunna  leave  my  minnie, 

Her  journey  is  na  lang  ; 
Her  lieid  is  bendin'  to  the  mools, 

Where  it  maun  shortly  gang. 
-Were  I  an  heiress  o'  a  crown, 

I'd  a'  its  honors  tine, 
'To  watch  her  steps  in  helpless  age, 

As  she  in  youth  watched  mine. 


THE  SNAW  LIES  DEEP  ON  HILL  AND  PLAIN. 


The  Snaw  Lies  Deep  on  Hill  and  J^lain 


rpiIE  snaw  lies  deep  on  hill  and  plain, 
Snell  fa'  the  pelting  sleet  and  rain  ; 
Sure  winter  has  come  back  again, 

Wi'  nichts  baith  lang  and  wearie  0  ; 
The  Sun's  withdrawn  his  cheering  beams, 
The  ice  has  fettered  living  streams, 
And  a'  the  face  o'  Nature  seems 
A  desert  cauld  and  drearie  0. 

O'er  earth  a  spotless  robe  is  flung, 

Wi'  white  festoons  the  groves  are  hung, 

Whaur  sylvan  minstrels  lately  sung 

Their  touching  lays  sae  cheerie  0  ; 
There's  frost-work  on  the  window-pane, 
And  flocks  for  green  fields  bleat  in  vain  ; 
Sure  winter  has  come  back  again, 

And  winds  blaw  wild  and  eerie  0. 

But  what  care  I  for  whistling  winds, 

Or  drifting  snaw  that  fairly  blinds  ? 

Gie  me  the  joys  that  true  love  finds 

Beside  my  trusting  dearie  0. 


10 


74        THE  SNA  W  LIES  DEEP  ON  HILL  AND  PLAIN. 

Sae  fondly  still  to  me  she  clings, 
And  sunshine  o'er  life's  pathway  flings, 
Wi'  music  sweet  our  cottage  rings, 

That  mak's  our  hame  sae  cheerie  0. 


KATE  0'   GLENROWAN.  75 


Kate    o'    Glenrowan. 


A  T  the  auld  parish  kirk  sin'  I  was  a  eallant, 

Fair  lassies  I've  seen  that  were  winsome  and  braw  : 
But  for  beauty  o'  grace  and  a  bonnie  sweet  face, 
The  charmin*  young  Kate  is  the  flower  o'  them  a'. 

She's  fair  as  the  white-rose,  and  pure  as  the  snow-flakes: 
Her  tender  heart  beats  sae  confidin'  and  true, 

And  were  Kate  only  mine,  with  a  transport  divine 
I'd  bask  in  the  light  o'  her  twa  een  o'  blue. 

But,  oh!  what  gars  me  dream  o'  Kate,  the  rich  heiress, 
Or  cherish  a  hope  that  is  foolish  and  vain  ? 

While  I  love  her  blindly,  she  smiles  on  me  kindly, 
And  not  with  proud  looks  of  a  haughty  disdain. 

As  her  daddie's  a  laird,  she  rides  in  her  carriage, 

And  flunkies  braw-drest  on  their  young  mistress  wait ; 

The  auld  folks  caress  her,  the  beggars  a'  bless  her, 
And  ilk  a:i3  is  loud  in  the  praises  o'  Kate. 


%  KATE  0'   GLENROWAN. 

Oh  !  were  Kate  only  puir,  without  hinds  or  siller, 
To  open  her  heart  love  wad  sune  find  a  key ; 

But  had  I  ne'er  met  her,  or  could  I  forget  her, 
I'd  then  be  as  blest  as  a  bodie  can  be. 

(her  hopes  that  are  crushed  I  feel  dull  and  dowie, 
And  nae  ane  can  tell  what  I  silently  dree  ; 

The  days  are  sae  drearie,  the  nichts  lang  and  wearie 
There's  naething  noo  left  to  bring  comfort  to  me. 


MY  MARY  0. 


M.Y    NLary    0, 


WAD  na  gie  my  Mary  yet 
For  a'  tlie  lassies  I  liae  seen ; 
Upon  her  face  twa  roses  bloom, 

And  love  sliines  in  her  bonnie  een. 
She  sings  as  sweet  as  ony  bird — 

Like  some  wee  witching  fairy  0  ; 
She's  crept  into  this  heart  o'  mine, 
And  there  she  reigns  my  Mary  0. 

Blest  wi'  a  heart  that's  pure  and  true, 

And  wi'  a  form  that's  grace  itsel', 
Does  mortal  breathe  wha  could  na  feel 

The  charming  power  o'  sic  a  spell  ? 
Queen  o'  my  love  !  I  tow  to  thee 

That  while  on  earth  I  tarry  0, 
Ko  one  shall  share  this  heart  o'  mine 

Wi'  my  sweet,  winsome  Mary  0. 


7^  CLARA. 


f 


LARA. 


QWEET  as  a  lyre  by  angel  strung 

^     Flows  gushing  music  from  her  tongue  ; 

And  in  her  warm,  confiding  heart 

Love  plays  its  true  and  gentle  part. 

In  her  all  human  virtues  blend 

That  gild  life's  pathway  to  the  end  ; 

With  witching  grace  she  smiles  on  all, 

And  lends  an  ear  to  Pity's  call. 

Seam  not  her  brow,  0  plowman  Care  ! 
Such  beauty  sweet  in  mercy  spare ; 
Through  weary  life,  so  sad  and  brief, 
Wring  not  her  heart,  0  weeping  Grief  ! 
The  smiles  upon  her  bonnie  face, 
And  all  her  charms  of  winning  grace, 
Stamp  Clara  such  a  peerless  prize 
Might  lure  an  angel  from  the  skies. 


ANNIE  LEE. 


Annie    Lee. 


H 


OW  sweet  'tis  to  think  o'  lang  syne,  Annie  Lee  ! 
When  youth,  grace,  and  beauty  were  thine,  Annie  Lee ! 
When  heart  beat  against  heart 

Whaur  nae  ane  could  see, 
I  thocht  thee  an  angel 
0'  bliss,  Annie  Lee  ! 


Ere  Nature  had  taught  us  to  lo'e,  Annie  Lee ! 
'Mang  clover-fields  wet  wi'  the  dew,  Annie  Lee  ! 
We'd  list  to  the  skylark 

That  sprang  frae  the  lee ; 
But  sweeter  by  far  were 
Thy  songs,  Annie  Lee  ! 

Down  the  glen  we  aft  took  a  turn,  Annie  Lee  ! 
An'  laved  our  wee  feet  in  the  burn,  Annie  Lee  ! 
I  looked  at  thy  shadow, 

An'  then  upon  thee, 

An'  felt  as  if  spell-bound 

To  love,  Annie  Lee ! 


80  ANNIE  LEE. 

AYi'  bonnie  rich  ringlets   o'  hair,   Annie  Lee  ! 
I  never  sac  ane  look  sue  fair,  Annie  Lee  ! 
An'  thy  twa  een  o'  blue, 
That  sparkled  wf  glee, 
Never  shone  to  deceive 
My  heart,  Annie  Lee  ! 

I  thocht  earth  a  heaven  o'  bliss,  Annie  Lee  ! 
When  young  courage  stole  the  first  kiss,  Annie  Lee  ! 
The  flowers  were  nae  fairer 

That  bloom  on  the  lea, 

The  snawdraps  nae  purer 

Than  thou,  Annie  Lee  ! 

The  pure  heart  that's  free  frae  a'  sin,  Annie  Lee  ! 
In  the  end  is  aye  sure  to  win,   Annie  Lee  ! 
So,  we  ne'er  dreamt  o'  wrang  ; 
Oh  !  wha  wad  wrang  thee  ? 
Sweet  mate  o'  my  boyhood, 
My  dear  Annie  Lee  ! 

Aft  love  gets  what  gold  canna  buy,  Annie  Lee  ! 
An'  gif   ony  doot,  let  them  try,   Annie  Lee  ! 
They  will  find  to  their  grief 

That  a'  their  hopes  dee, 
And  naething  but  love  lives 
In  bliss,  Annie  Lee  ! 

It  is  said  that  true  love  is  blind,   Annie  Lee  ! 
An'  seldom  a  leal  heart  can  find,  Annie  Lee  ! 


ANNIE  LEE. 


But  the  flume  wanetli  not 
First  kindled  by  thee  ; 

'Tis  fanned  by  thy  love  still. 
My  sweet  Annie  Lee  ! 


tl 


8;> 


LITTLE  NELLY  GORDON. 


Little    Nelly    Gordon, 


C  WEET  little  Nelly  Gordon, 
So  witching  and  so  airy, 
Thy   step  is  like  the  gentle  fawn, 
Or  some  wee  mountain  fairy. 

Young  rosebud  of  Life's  joyous  Spring, 
Where  pride  and  hope  are  centred, 

Thine  eyes  are  love,  thy  heart  a  shrine 
Where  sin  has  never  entered. 

Sweet  little  Nelly  Gordon  ! 

Fair  bud  that  soon  will  blossom, 
May  sorrow  never  plant  her  thorns 

Within  thy  tender  bosom. 

If  on  this  orb,  sweet,  beauteous  thing, 
Thou  art  designed  to  tarry, 

Seek  till  thou  find  the  jewel,  worth, 
And  not  till  then  e'er  marry. 


MY  BONNIE  WEE  LIZZIE. 


M.Y    Bonnie    Wee    Lizzi: 


]\TY  bonnie  wee  Lizzie, 
So  gentle  and  fair, 
There's  love  in  thy  glances, 

And  grace  in  thine  air. 
My  heart,  like  the  ivy 

That  twines  round  the  tree, 
Clings  fondly  with  rapture, 

My  Lizzie,  to  thee. 

Sweet  flower  of  rare  beauty, 

My  hope  and  my  pride  ! 
I  never  feel  happy 

Away  from  thy  side. 
May  no  clouds  of  sorrow 

E'er  shade  thy  young  brow, 
Nor  tears  bleach  the  roses 

That  sweetly  bloom  now. 

Thine  eyes  beam  so  brightly 
And  softly  on  me, 


-°4  MY  BONNIE   WEE  LIZZIE. 

No  wonder  that  nightly 
My  dreams  are  of  thee. 

I'll  go  to  the  altar 

With  joy  and  with  prile, 

And  there,  my  sweet  Lizzie. 
Confess  thee  my  bride. 


MY  SWEET  LITTLE  IIWN1E 


JVLy    Sweet    Little    Minnie. 


,■  Y  sweet  little  Hinnie, 
My  bonnie  wee  doo! 
What  sets  me  a-dreaming 

An'  thinking  o'  you  ? 
The  sly,  pawkie  archer 

Has  wounded  my  heart. 
And  none  but  you,  Mary. 
Can  pluck  out  the  dart/' 

'•'  Gif  that  be  sae,   Willy, 

I'll  pluck  out  the  dart, 
And  I'll  gie  you  mysel' 

To  heal  your  bit  heart. 
I'll  be  your  leal  wine 

E'en  sud  I  repent ; 
So  aff  to  my  minnie, 

And  spier  her  consent." 

"  I'll  aff,  my  wee  dantec — 
Ae  kiss  ere  I  gang; 


86  MY  SWEET  LITTLE  IIINXIE , 

The  lift  it  is  starry, 
The  road  is  na  lan£. 

I'll  sune  be  back,  lassie, 
Lore's  wings  quickly  flee  ; 

Then,  then  shall  I  never 
Part,  Mary,  frae  thee." 


HIE    VALLEY  OF  WYOMING.  87 


The    Valley    of    Wyoming. 


QHOIILD  you  resolve  in  happy  mood 
^     Awhile  to  go  a-roaming, 
Eesfc  not  until  your  eyes  behold 

The  Valley  of  "Wyoming. 
Although  with  evening  dew  there  falls 

No  life-sustaining  manna, 
There  Plenty  spreads  her  ample  stores 

Along  the  Susquehanna 

The  fields  send  forth  their  golden  grain 

In  no  mean,  stinted  measure, 
And  Earth  to  toil  yields  freely  up 

Her  subterranean  treasure. 
Let  poets  sing  the  praises  of 

The  dashing  Lackawanna ; 
But  give  to  me  that  noble  stream, 

The  charming  Susquehanna. 

Its  fertile  banks  are  sweetly  graced 
By  many  a  cot  and  palace, 


THE   VALLEY  OF  WYOMING 

And  hills  of  green  look  proudly  down 

Upon  the  peaceful  valleys. 
There  blooms  the  rosebud  of  my  heart. 

The  young  and  peerless  Anna  ; 
Ko  purer  is  thy  crystal  stream, 

0  placid  Susquehanna! 


FIRST  LO  VE.  89 


First    Love. 


rrUIO'  the  false  world  may  hide,  and  sly  art  may  conceal, 

There  is  no  love  so  pure  as  the  first  love  we  feel ; 
While  we  try  to  supplant  it  or  tear  it  apart, 
Like  a  sweet,  clasping  vine  it  clings  close  to  the  heart. 

On  the  ruins  of  some  broken  heart  it  may  lean, 
And  grow  like  wild  weeds  in  the  ocean  unseen  ; 
While  roses  of  beauty  may  languish  and  fade, 
Like  some  tender  exotic  that's  kept  in  the  shade. 

The  sweet  smiles  of  a  face  and  bright,  love-speaking  eyes 
For  a  season  the  passion  may  partly  disguise  ; 
And  the  heart  may  be  sad  while  the  tongue  may  be  still, 
Yet  it  lives  warmly  nursed,  let  us  do  what  we  will. 

To  remembrance  it  clings,  and  it  clings  to  the  soul, 

And  to  banish  it  thence  baffles  human  control ; 

It  is  true  to  its  object  of  love  and  of  worth, 

As  the  mariner's  needle  that  points  to  the  north. 
12 


90  FIRST  LOVE. 

Just  as  well  strive  to  flee  front  the  presence  of  God 
As  to  pluck  out  the  passion,  at  home  or  abroad; 
It  is  nourished  with  sighs,  it  is  watered  with  tears, 
And  how  bitter  and  dark  is  the  fruit  that  it  bears  ! 

Like  some  flower  of  rare  beauty  whose  delicate  form 
Is  too  fragile  to  braye  the  rude  blasts  of  life's  storm  ; 
Oh  !  for  pity's  sake  spare  it  from  slander's  foul  breath, 
Till  its  beatings  are  hushed  in  the  stillness  of  death. 


MAR  J  ANN.  91 


Mary    Ann, 
of   iiamilto^,   ontario. 


T'VE  wandered  ower  this  weary  warld, 

And  seen  some  beauties  rare  ; 
But  till  I  met  sweet  Mary  Ann, 
I  ne'er  saw  ane  sae  fair. 


Her  wee  bit  heart  is  love  itsel, 

And  her  twa  witchin'  een 
Need  not  the  music  o'  her  tongue 

To  tell  me  what  they  mean. 

Nae  beauty  that  I  ever  saw 
Can  match  her  winsome  face ; 

And,   cast  in  nature's  fairest  mould, 
Her  form  is  perfect  grace. 

So,  love,  bring  all  your  charming  queens 
That  sweetly  smile  on  man  ; 

There's  ane  I  ken  will  beat  them  a' — 
My  bonnie  Mary  Ann. 


M  LUCY  LEE. 


Lucy   Le: 


QIIE'S  budding  in  her  early  teens, 
^     Sae  young  and  sweetly  fair ; 
What  hand  wad  in  her  bosom  plant 

The  thorns  o'  grief  an'  care  ? 
The  mother  on  her  bairnie  doats 

That  smiles  upon  her  knee  ; 
But  wi'  a  warmer  gush  o'  joy 

My  heart  lo'es  Lucy  Lee. 

There's  love  in  a'  her  witching  smiles, 

There's  rapture  in  her  een ; 
I  need  no  aid  o'  mystic  lore 

To  tell  me  what  they  mean. 
The  warld  and  a'  that  in  it  blooms 

Wad  be  a  waste  to  me, 
Did  frosts  untimely  nip  the  flower, 

My  winsome  Lucy  Lee. 


RAVE   YOU  FELT  AT  YOUR  HEAR!?  93 


Wave   You    Felt   at  Youi\  Heart 


TJAVE  you  felt  at  your  heart 

The  strong  tuggings  of  sin, 
When  the  flame  of  pure  love 

Was  first  kindled  within  ? 
Have  you  sworn  to  be  true, 

In  soft  whispers  sincere, 
When  heart  heat  against  heart, 

And  when  no  one  is  near  ? 

Have  you  knelt  to  blue  eyes 

As  you  would  at  a  shrine, 
Without  feeling  the  wish 

That  the  fair  one  was  thine  ? 
Have  you  tasted  the  sweets 

Of  a  maiden's  first  kiss, 
Without  thinking  you  breathed 

In  a  region  of  bliss  ? 

If  you  have,  then  away 

With  your  cold  heart  of  stone, 


94  HAVE   YOU  FELT  AT  YOUR  HEART; 

And  in  some  desert  dwell, 

Like  a  hermit,   alone. 
Let  me  hask  in  the  smiles 

Of  the  fond  one  I  love, 
Till  my  soul,   tired  of  earth, 

Seeks  a  blest  home  above. 


HOW  I  LOVE  TO  DREAM  0'  1HEE,  MARY  I  95 


J   Love  to   Dream   o*   Thee,   JVLary  ! 


TTTHEN  Mature  tak's  her  winter  nap 
In  her  canld  white  sheets  o'  snaw, 
Or  when  the  wild,  weird  whistlin'  winds 

Roam'  the  auld  clay  biggin  blaw, 
An'  meltin'  rains  an  roarin'  floods 

A'  the  strong  ice-fetters  thaw, 
How  I  loye  to  dream  o'  thee,  Mary  ! 

How  I  loye  to  dream  o'  thee  ! 

"When  tender  shoots  an'  burstin'  buds 

On  the  orchard  trees  are  hung; 
When  wee  birds  build  their  cosie  nests, 

Whaur  the  auld  anes  feed  their  young, 
An'  hills  an'  valleys  ring  wi'  joy, 

As  they  aft  before  hae  rung, 
How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee,  Mary  ! 

How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee  ! 

When  the  thorn  is  white  wi'  blossoms, 
An'  the  bloom  is  on  the  pea ; 


%  HOW  I  LOVE  TO  BREAM  0'  TREE,  MART! 

When  bonnie  golden  buttercups 
An'  the  gowans  gem  the  lee, 

An'  kindred  tribes  in  sylvan  groves 
Sing  on  ilka  bush  an'  tree, 

How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee,  Mary  ! 
How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee! 

When  bleatin'  hills  an'  vocal  glens 

Lie  bathed  in  glittering  sheen, 
Ere  gloamin'  casts  a  dusky  veil 

O'er  the  fields  o'  wavin'  green, 
Or  lovers  meet  to  pledge  their  vows 

At  the  trystin'  time  o'  e'en, 
How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee,   Mary  ! 

How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee  ! 

When  the  flowers  a'  droop  an'  wither, 

Despite  the  dews  that  gently  fa' ; 
When  the  yellow  hairsts  are  gathered  in, 

An'  the  swallows  flee  awa' ; 
When  the  nichts  are  lang  an'  dreary, 

An'  a  gloom  hangs  over  a', 
How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee,  Mary  ! 

How  I  love  to  dream  o'  thee  ! 


LOWLAND  MARY.  07 


Lowland     Mary. 


rpiIE  rosy  rays  of  tlie  morning  light 

In  their  downward  course  may  tarry 
And  linger  to  gild  the  mountain-tops, 

Ere  I  cease  to  love  my  Mary. 
The  rolling  spheres  may  be  lost  in  night, 

The  snn  in  his  course  may  vary ; 
But  my  constant  heart  will  aye  beat  true 

To  my  own  dear  Lowland  Mary. 

O'er  my  head  the  clouds  of  care  may  hang, 

And  my  cherished  hopes  miscarry ; 
But  no  changes  that  the  world  may  bring 

Can  e'er  change  my  loye  for  Mary ; 
Trees  may  not  bloom,  and  birds  may  not  sing, 

And  the  speed  of  time  may  vary ; 
But  warmly  throned  in  this  loving  heart 

Shall  reign  my  own  Lowdand  Mary. 


13 


98  HO  W  THE  HEART  TO  THE  PAST  WT  RAP  TUBE  CLINGS! 


flow    the    weart    to    the    past   wt    rapture 

Clings  ! 


TTOW  the  heart  to  the  Past  wi'  rapture  clings 
When,  the  spirit  Memory  bears  nae  stings, 
But  o'er  it  a  glorious  halo  flings 

That  makes  it  seem  sae  cheerie  ! 
There's  a  bonnie  wee  spot  ayont  the  sea 
That's  sweeter  than,  a'  ither  spots  to  me, 
Where  the  mornin'  o'  life  I  spent  sae  free 

'Mang  scenes  that  never  wearie. 


'o 


There  the  Spring  first  comes  wi'  its  leaves  and  buds  ; 
There  the  cuckoo  is  heard  in  the  circlin'  wuds ; 
An'  far  up  in  the  lift  amang  the  cluds 

The  laverock  sings  sae  cheerie. 
The  swallow  its  wings  in  the  burnie  dips ; 
The  bee  frae  the  thistle  its  honey  sips ; 
Where  sae  fondly  first  I  pried  the  lips 

0'  Jean,  my  bonnie  dearie. 


110  W  THE  HEART  TO  THE  PA81  WT  RAPTURE  CLINGS!   99 

Oh  !  my  heart  yet  clings,  Craigieburn,  to  thee  ! 
Where  the  langest  day  was  aye  short  to  me  ; 
An'  where  aften  I  still  in  fancy  flee 

To  scenes  that  never  wearie. 
I  dream  o'  the  trees  wi'  their  plumes  o'  green, 
An'  I  gaze  on  the  flowers  wi'  ravished  een, 
Where  first  I  met  wi'  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  early,  only  dearie. 


100  JESSIE  PATERSON. 


Jessie    Paterson, 


TTTHERE   green  hills  gently  rise,    and   the   Tweed   is  but 
'  '      a  burn, 
In  pleasing  dreams  of  fancy  my  footsteps  oft  return  ; 
But  sic  happy  days  again  I  never  mair  may  see  ; 
Oh  !  then  Jessie   Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to  me. 


Red  rowans  an'  blae-berries  in  simmer  we  wad  piv, 

An'  wi'  licht  hearts,  free  o'  care,  we  promised  to  be  true  ; 

But  how  little   do   wre   ken  what  we're   born   to   dree    and 

tine  ? 
Then,  a'    her    hopes    an'    prospects   were    bundled   up    wi' 

mine. 

Oh  !  Blink-Bonny's  buddin'  rose  was  fairest  o'  the  fair, 
An'  gracefully  in  ringlets  huug  down  her  gowden  hair  ; 
We  never  thocht  o*  changes  the  future  had  in  store, 
Or  the  pangs  that  it  wrad  bring  we  dreamt-na  o'  before. 

When  her  wee  cozie  biggin,  weel  theekit  ower  wi'  straw, 
Wi'  Winter's  robe  was  happit,  afore  March   brocht  a  thaw; 


JESSIE  PATERSON.  101 

Or   when   flowers   wad  bud   in   Spring,   and  braird   was   on 

the  lea, 
Oh  !  then  Jessie  Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to  me. 

When  the  sun  in  mornin'  mist  was  blinkin'  redly  through, 
An'  the  gowan  an'  the  broom  were  bricht  wi'  pearly  dew, 
We're  listened  to  the  lark  in  some  fleecy-flittin'  cloud, 
Where  sweet  the  little  warbler  sung  matin  lays  aloud. 

In  the  merry  harvest-time,  when  reapers  cam'  to  shear, 
We  thocht-na  m  our  daffin'  our  parti n'  was  so  near ; 
I  think  I  see  her  now,  fu'  o'  rosy,  rustic  glee  ; 
Oh  !  then  Jessie  Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to   me. 

But  why  should  I  be  dowie  ?  Thae  days  are  gane  an'  past. 
An'  I  hae  learned  the  lesson  that  pleasures  canna  last  ; 
Her  minnie  was-na  pleased,  an'  anger  steek'd  the  door ; 
The  truth  then  stood  revealed  that  I  was  unco  poor. 

Bonnie  Jessie  Paterson  !  sac  winsome  an'   sac  kind, 
Keep  a  wee  neuk  in  your  heart  for  honest  Tarn  the  hind  ; 
Though  Willie  ye  hae  wed,  an'  crossed  the  heavin'  sea, 
My  blessin'  on  ye  baith — lang  happy  may  ye  be  ! 


102  Oil!  MY  FAIR,   MY  DARLING  MAGGIE. 


Ph  !  JAy   ^aif\.  JAy    Darling  JVIaggi 


AH  !  my  fair,  my  darling  Maggie, 

^     Angel,  whom  I  love  so  dearly  ; 

Language  fails  to  speak  the  feeling 

Of  my  heart,  that  beats  sincerely. 

Chorus — Let  us  live  to  love  each  other, 

Bound  by  ties  that  none  can  sever  ; 
Now,  my  fair,  my  darling  Maggie, 
Say  thou  wilt  be  mine  for   ever. 

Love  from  life's  warm  fountain  gushes  ; 

Kisses  tell  what  ne'er  was   spoken; 
Vows  are  but  poor  empty  pledges, 

Warmly  made  and  coldly  broken. 
Chorus — Let  us  live  to  love  each  other,  etc. 

Gliding  down  life's  rapid  river, 
We  can  hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

They  may  teach  us  to  be  happy — 
Fondly  to  their  spring  mates  clinging. 
Chorus — Let  us  live  to  love  each  other,  etc. 


BONNIE  FANNY  DEAN.  103 


Bonnie   Fanny   Dean, 


TN  rambling  through  this  weary  warld, 

I've  flowers  o'  beauty  seen ; 
But  nane  were  half  sae  fair  to  me 
As  bonnie  Fanny  Dean. 

I've  never  seen  sic  twa  blue  een, 

Nor  sic  a  sweet  wee  mou ; 
And,  oh !  her  heart  is  soft  and  pure 

As  drops  o'  morning  dew. 

The  glossy  vine  wi'  grace  may  twine 

In  nature's  wilds  amang ; 
More  gracefu'  still  ower  Fanny's  brow 

Her  gowden  tresses  hang. 

I've  kent  her  sin'  she  was  a  bairn, 

A  wee  bit  gentle  thing ; 
But  never  thocht  her  budding  charms 

A  spell  wad  ower  me  fling. 


104  BONNIE  FANNY  DEAN. 

I'll  never  break  the  sacred  vow, 
The  promise  made  yestreen ; 

Come  weal  or  woe,  I'll  wedded  be 
To  bonnie   Fanny  Dean. 


EPITAPHS   AND    EPIGRAMS. 


Sandy     IVLien, 


TITIEN  by  name  and  mean  by  nature, 

Mean  in  looks  and  mean  in  stature, 
Mean  in  line  and  every  feature, 
Lived  this  mean  and  worthless  creature. 


On   the   Tombstone    of   a    Knave. 

A  S  from  death  there  is  no  one  exempt, 

Here  lie  the  remains  of  a  knave, 
For  whose  name,  just  to  show  their  contempt 
Skunks  come  here  and  water  his  grave. 
14 


106  EPITAPHS  AND  EPIGRAMS. 


An    Honest   JVLan. 

T)AUSE,  reader,  for  a  moment  pause, 

And  shed  one  silent  tear ; 
For,  underneath  this  lonely  mound, 
An  honest  man  sleeps  here. 


Ellis   the    Baker^ 

TTERE  lies  the  sot,  Ellis  the  baker, 

Who,  when  living,  was  selfish  and  cold ; 
For  some  unaccountable  reason, 

Mercy  spared  him  until  he  was  old. 


The    Drunkard    and    Cheat. 

TTERE  lies  an  impostor,  a  drunkard  and  cheat, 

Whom  the  rogues  called  the  prince  of  guid  fellows  ; 
He  tried  to  cheat  Death,  but  he  did  not  succeed, 
Yet  succeeded  in  cheating  the  gallows. 


EPITAPHS  AND  EPIGRAMS.  107 


JHE    ji 


YPOCRITE. 


rpiilS  man  tried  his  best  to  serve  God  and  the  Devil, 

But  he  loved  most  of  all  his  hot  toddy ; 
A  wild,  fevered  brain  made  a  wreck  of  his  soul, 
And  the  whisky  a  hell  of  his  body. 


Lying   Tommy. 


TF  truth  he  speaks,  'tis  by  mistake, 
And  none  but  fools  believe  him  ; 
When  old  grim  Death  chokes  Tommy's  breath, 
The  Devil  will  receive  him. 


Dram-Drinking   John. 

TTE  drank  so  much  brandy  while  living 

That  the  chemists  all  .said  he  would  "keep 
Till  the  angel  shall  blow  the  last  trump, 
When  amazed  he  will  start  from  his  sleep. 


108  EPITAPHS  AND   EPIGRAMS. 


On    the   Death    of   a   Friend. 

A  ND  couldst  thou  not,  0  cruel  Death  ! 
^     Withheld  the  fatal  blow 
That  so  untimely  laid  my  friend 
And  dear  companion  low  ? 


On   the   Death   of   Robert   Gowanlock, 


OF   SA^"   FKANCTSCO. 


CO  thou  art  gone,  0  good  old  man  ! 
^     My  long-tried  friend  and  brother  ! 
How  vain  the  search  would  be  on  earth 
To  find  just  such  another  ! 


f 


PIGRAM. 


TJ IS  heart  is  as  rotten  as  muck, 

And  black  as  the  color  of  coal 
Inquiry  dumbfounded  was  struck 
In  finding  no  trace  of  a  soul. 


EPITAPHS  AND  EPIGRAMS.  109 


Elder    Knapp,    the    Sensational    Preacher 

T?0R  God's  sake  and  your  own  sake,  Knapp, 

Don't  preach  such  silly  twaddle, 
But  leave  this  fair  Pacific   coast, 
And  to  the  East  skedaddle  ! 


The   Ruling    Passion. 

TTE  raved  and  he  swore,  and  he  hobbled  about, 

To  brandy  a  slave,  and  a  martyr  to  gout ; 
Though  not  bent  with  years,   he  was  long  spared  to  see 
His  finger-joints  gnarled  like  the  trunk  of  a  tree  ; 
While  tortured  with  pangs  from  his  head  to  his  toes, 
The  blossoms  of  rum  flourished  red   on  his   nose ; 
Like  one  that  was  bent  in  the  search  of  more  pain, 
He  freely  would  drink  Widow  Clicquot   champagne  ; 
He  died  as  he  lived,   and,  while  gasping  for  breath, 
His  last  grog  was  quaffed  in  the  Valley  of  Death. 


HO  EPITAPHS  AND  EPIGRAMS. 


David    Mitchell. 

^THERE'S  Mitchell,   he  treasures  up  learning, 

But  cares  not  for  hoarding   up   pelf ; 
He  has  but  one  foe  in  the  world, 

And,   strange  to  say,  that  is  himself. 
Some  say  that  he  likes  pretty  girls, 

And  hint  that  he's  fond  of  his  toddy  ; 
It  may  be  all  true,   but  I  swear 

His  heart  is  too  big  for  his  body. 


Willy,    the    /lntiquarian    Oddity. 

"ITADE  up  of  strange  and  outre  parts, 

Oh  !  queer,  incongruous  mixture, 
You  crept  into  my  heart  langsyne, 

And  there  remained  a  fixture. 
There's  something  about  thee,  old  friend  ! 

So  lively  and  so  active, 
That  makes  thy  humor  and  thy  wit 

So  sparkling  and  attractive. 


EPITAPHS  AND  EPIGRAMS.  Ill 


PIGRAM. 


TITHILE  e'en  the  very  best  may  be 

A   little   indiscreet, 
There's  nothing  in  the  wrangler,   but 
The  gas  of  self-conceit. 


w 


N 


tf 


